


Penitentia

by iamanidhwal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Azira Fell, Blood and Injury, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demon!Aziraphale, Extreme, Fallen Angel, Graphic, Graphic Description, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Inner Demons, Inner Demons AU, Reverse Omens, Self-Flagellation, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Whipping, based on miller_izo, corporal flagellation, crowley is only mentioned, flagellation, mentions of crowley - Freeform, miller_izo, poor Aziraphale, religious, reverse au, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 03:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20668652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanidhwal/pseuds/iamanidhwal
Summary: As far our as our inner demons go, we never really are truly innocent.[based on miller_izo's Inner Demons AU]





	Penitentia

**Author's Note:**

> Small writing exercise to keep me churning words!
> 
> Based on miller_izo's Inner Demons AU! Please follow them on twitter and see the amazing AU yourself: @miller_izo!
> 
> That new update of Aziraphale screaming "I repent" was the only inspiration I needed.
> 
> That, and Silas from 'The Da Vinci Code'.
> 
> Most of these back details are only things I've supplemented, not from the AU itself! Please just check their work out to know more uwu 
> 
> Sorry this isn't as immersive or thick-plotted or anything of the sort; I just love filling in the small details in between ;n;

* * *

A lavish home with many rooms, not all of them used and lived in, sits in one of the swankier areas of London. The staff was composed of ten maids, two gardeners, three cooks, a bartender and a butler. Most of them only ever knew the conditions asked by the man they served; if everything goes well, their bank accounts were filled by midnight every fortnight without having them even encountering the ghost of the man of the house.

They knew who he was, of course; a descendant of the man who used to own a bookshop down in SoHo. It had been many years since A.Z. Fell & Co. had been burned during the war, for reasons unknown, but it was not an uncommon story at the time. Shops tend to burn all the time, whether by catching fire from a nearby explosion, or from looters who infiltrated, pilfered, killed and destroyed the evidence. Of course, the _official _records state that it had been a clear, cut-and-dry case of arson, and with the sizeable insurance that the bookshop had had at the time (for it was one that dated back for centuries, and even the lawyers were surprised to see the amount it was insured for when they converted it to the current exchange rate), the owner had used that money to recover from his personal injuries and retire somewhere with a big mansion, passing quietly and leaving his inheritance to the man who now owned Fell Manor.

Of course, this was only the human façade of it all. There _had _been an arson, and there _had _been injuries from the owner, but they were not part in parcel. That knowledge, however, was only ever known to two beings in the whole world, one of them hiding from the world for the better part of sixty years.

The demons in Hell knew who he was, and only ever visited when it was essential. They knew, more than they were comfortable with, which angel he was, and under all of the cool aloofness they exuded, Azira saw there was an underlying emotion hidden somewhere in the depths of their character. It varied from demon to demon: Hastur’s was curiosity; Ligur’s was envy; Dagon’s was respect.

But the Prince of Hell, Lord Beelzebub, had the most irritating thing of them all: _pity._

“I know it _muzzzt _be a bit much,” they had said, buzzing around with their little fly hat on top of their hair. Azira just sat on the leather chair behind his desk, observing them as they picked up a copy of _Tropic of Cancer _by Henry Miller, before plopping it back down, disinterested. “You Falling.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, my Lord,” Azira had replied, not without a bite of anger in his voice. “But you Fell, as well.”

“But not on consecrated ground,” they had chirped back, looking straight at him. “I can’t imagine how it felt.”

“Painful enough,” Azira’s smile was forced, as everything he did since the incident at the cathedral. “Trust me, you wouldn’t wish it, even to your enemies.”

And it was true. He had heard stories, of course, of how the first angels who rebelled in the war had had it worse. He couldn’t ever imagine it, couldn’t think of a life without feeling the awesome power of God beating under his feet, or his palm whenever he touched a tree in St. James Park.

But there were some details that were left out of these accounts – mainly, the pain at the base of his wings, and how heavy they felt every time he unfurled them. There was also the unnerving pit at the bottom of his gut, a feeling of emptiness and utter loss that had abated him from ever finding joy from everything else that he used to enjoy. 

For example, he had hired the cooks to work in shifts for him, but never really eating anything other than the occasional fruits and nuts. He consumed quite a lot of alcohol that the bartender would provide him, no questions asked, but not the ones he used to like; no single-malt scotch, or aged bottles of wine, not even the funny little cocktails. He had taken a bitter liking to spirits and strong alcohol, and would favor plum-flavored shots of Hungarian _palinka _or a glass of Japanese whisky.

Anything that reminded him of his past life as an angel was despicably painful.

And so that was how he spent the next sixty years; in desolation and pitiful self-exile, with drunken stupors in between. He didn’t feel life on Earth under his bare feet; only the sickening pull of Hell that he had learned to ignore. After all, demons were not supposed to be anywhere considered _above _something. God made sure of that. There had been a time when the angel then known as Aziraphale would have defended this decision and Her design. He had only choice swear words for this, as of late.

Of course, he had _duties _now, to stir trouble above ground, the likes of which he had been on the thwarting end of for the better part of millennia. There was no specific details on his new job description, only to be wary of any reinforcement that Heaven would send, to fill in the spot that Azira had vacated.

All the angels he had encountered had failed, and he had either discorporated them or sent them wailing back to the archangels. After all, what were a bunch of measly minor angels to a demon that was once a Principality of Heaven, the guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden?

But that wasn’t him now, hadn’t been for a while. He had no right to claim a piece of God’s history as his contribution. As long as Heaven and Hell were concerned, he was a demon, no ifs, whys, or buts. History had no bearing, and only the present mattered.

In his heart of hearts, the demon known as Azira Fell had many regrets. He never admitted them to anyone. Who could he even turn to with the nauseating thoughts that filled his head? The demons would find him repulsive. The angels would ridicule him. And the one and only being he considered a friend had shunned him the very moment he Fell. 

Thoughts of the demon Crowley now came to his head, and, in a fit of anger, Azira swept his arms out and threw everything on his desk onto the floor. How they had spent thousands of years together, how they helped each other. How, in a moment of uncertainty, Aziraphale had done something he had never done before. Hands bloodied and shaking, he turned to see Crowley look straight through him, shut out his cries of help and screams of pain, and had run away from him without so much as a look back as Aziraphale’s painful Descent started.

With a loud scream, he swore and cursed in a language too old for a mere simpleton to understand, filled with hatred and resentment and boiling anger the likes of which hellfire could not match. Books flew from the mahogany bookshelves that spanned from ceiling to floor, pages being torn from the spines and falling like leaves all around him. Mirrors and glass objects shattered, one by one, until even the crystal chandelier that hung directly above him exploded, raining glass shards down around him.

A few moments of silence passed as Azira composed himself. He stepped back by muscle memory until he found the door knob, turning it deftly and going out to face the butler, who looked harried in his pyjamas as he ran with a flashlight up the stairs.

“S-Sir, are you alright?” he asked, red in the face and panting as he caught his breath.

Azira merely smiled, although it was empty of warmth. “Yes, Barnaby, all good.” He snapped his fingers before he patted his shoulder. “I’ll be taking my leave for the night. Please get some rest, as well.”

“Yes, sir, good evening,” the man mumbled, confusion plain on his face.

Azira knew that, when he was out of human earshot, Barnaby would open the door to his private library. Just as he knew how everything he had destroyed in a fit would be replaced, in pristine condition, without any indication whatsoever that they were even damaged at some point in history, if at all.

He didn’t mind in the least if his butler questioned things that were too mysterious to be explained away by logic. Humans, after all, were inanely curious; it was their nature, God’s ineffable design written in the sequence of their DNA. He couldn’t fault them, really; he was much more open to just sitting back and letting them run amuck, temptation and sin following them like a shadow on a sunny day.

As soon as he got into the master bedroom, he took off the dark suit coat and the blood-red scarf he had worn for the day, checking himself in the full-length mirror as he undressed. Gone were the cream suits and svelte vests he used to wear, replaced by bespoke three-piece suits of darker colors than what he was used to wearing. Before, he’d usually never go astray from anything white or beige. Now, there was not even a stripe of anything _light _in his closet except for contrasting designs on his tartan accessories. Heaven and Hell had strict dress codes, apparently, and he’d been forced to follow them from day one.

But that wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Most notable was the facial hair, a manageable scruff that put a few years on his face. Losing the cherubic cheeks with their rosy glow was the first thing he had done, too conscious about them whenever he’d see them in the mirror. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle brighter, but were more slanted, with crow’s feet branching out from their corners.

_Smile lines, _humans called them. Odd little thing, that. He tried smiling now, but it never quite reached his eyes for some reason. Azira tried to remember the last moment he felt absolute joy, but failed.

“No matter,” he mumbled to himself, his face going slack, muscles naturally forming a scowl. Frowning was a good look on him, he thought as he surveyed his reflection. Made him look more like a demon.

Suddenly, the image of Crowley scowling down at him came to mind. Wearing a plain black suit with a red tie, and a top hat, that was the last time Azira saw the demon. Shock and disgust and disappointment flitting across his face within a span of a few seconds, before the demon turned tail and run.

He didn’t realize until he felt a stinging pain from his knuckles to his elbow that his fist had smashed against the mirror.

Panting heavily, Azira watched with mild fascination as he flexed his wounded knuckles, saw a few shards in the wound as blood dripped down his arm in a steady stream. The sting made him hiss, but he liked it this way. He didn’t have to focus on anything else. No thoughts strayed to the angel that wasn’t him, to the demon who betrayed him, to the God who abandoned him.

Azira stepped back to sit down on the bed, wincing in pain as another part of his body flared up. It came from his thighs, and he unbuttoned and pushed his pants down by the waistband, checking to see if he had drawn blood. Sure enough, the metal cilices that he had been used to wearing had broken flesh, little rivers of blood dripping down into the dark carpet. He made quick work of retying them to be a bit more accommodating to the bend of flesh, but not loose enough that he would forget that the spiked garter was there.

He snapped the mirror back into its original condition, then took his pants off fully, folding them and placing them down smoothly onto the bed, being careful enough not to bloody it. Dressed in nothing but his undergarments, he looked at his worldly body and hummed, lost in thought.

Aziraphale the angel wasn’t vain, and nary had a single reflective surface apart from the one in his closet. Now, he could check himself all he wanted, and what he saw reflected back at him wasn’t to his liking. A muscled form, a little bit more angular than what he was used to, than what he usually liked. A little more sad and angry and bitter, a little more unkempt and unshaven.

Deep down, he didn’t like Azira the demon. Didn’t like his own form. He despised everything that he was, from the tops of the curls on his head to the unfeeling soles of his feet.

Wordlessly, he took a box from under the bed, unclasping it easily with his good hand. The leather grip he had added to the wooden handle felt nice and worn, the lead balls knotted and braided into cotton strings clicking together as he took the instrument out of the box. He held it beside him, checking himself again in the mirror.

Azira took a bracing breath, then threw the flagellum against his shoulder with all his might. The lead balls smacked against his skin, smarting and breaking flesh. It gave Azira a strange high, pain shooting up from his back, which was marred and littered with more self-inflicted whip marks than he was comfortable to share with anyone outside his own bedroom.

On and on his self-flagellation went, as blood ran down from new inflicted wounds, and old reopened ones, as the lead balls did its work and marked him, made him imperfect, made him man and demon and everything an angel was not. He was crying, and shouting, and hissing in pain, until the only words he could sob out in between bouts of aching were two words he had wanted to shout to the Heavens, but no one ever really bothered lending him an ear, less so reply.

“I repent… I repent…” he whispered, voice hoarse. He finally dropped the flagellum, blood-soaked and with bits of skin attached, then saw himself again in the mirror.

Blood-soaked hands, tears down his face, pain flaring from his legs and blooming on his back. He looked as much as his old self, the old Aziraphale, in that church so long ago in the middle of the second World War.

He laughed at his reflection, a pitiful, hollow sound that escaped his ribcage and dissolved into silence. This was the only way he could ever even pretend to be what he once was, the only form he could ever replicate. His last few moments as an angel, before his Descent and subsequent Fall.

“Who am I kidding,” he whispered to himself, reaching out to the reflection looking sadly back at him. Azira smeared a bloody handprint on the mirror, drawing a line like a gory brushstroke across his neck. Demons were unforgiveable, little balls of darkness and evil and sin. He’d have stayed an angel if he hadn’t been tempted, or have lied. He’d have stayed in Heaven if he had just stayed innocent.

“But as far as our inner demons go,” he whispered to himself, not breaking eye contact. “We never really are _truly _innocent.” 

**Author's Note:**

> *The flagellum was the kind of whip that was used on prisoners to weaken them enough to prevent any struggling by the time they were to be crucified.
> 
> *The metal cilice is used by members of extremely religious organizations like Opus Dei. 
> 
> *Corporal mortification has been used in religious terms as many things, such as physical reminders of sin and encouragement of atonement.
> 
> *Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer" was a literary revolution on its own, banned for being controversially pornographic when it was published. I headcanon, always, that Aziraphale collects scandalous erotica books but never read them, keeping them stockpiled somewhere only for Crowley to peruse when he's bored. Azira would have said 'fuck it' and cracked it open for some light afternoon reading over tea.


End file.
